A Tale of Two Sociopaths
by blaseManiac
Summary: Corin Cassidy had been living at 221B for a few years already when Sherlock came into the picture. Though both anti-social and highly intellectual, living together may prove to be a challenge. (Sorry for the bad summary, it's less boring than it sounds.) SherlockxOC
1. Chapter 1

Corin sat in her favourite chair staring out at the busy London street. As person after person passed, she read a bit of their lives, either in their gait, acquaintances or even what they were carrying. She looked at the time on her wall clock. It was nearing rush hour. She closed the curtains. The last time she watched during rush hour she had a headache for another two hours afterwards. The room was silent, but out in the hall she heard familiar footsteps. It was Mrs. Hudson. Judging by her pace, which was quick but not hasty, she had news. Not bad news though, (she wasn't moving fast enough for that.) so a patient wasn't calling. However, it had to be important otherwise she wouldn't trouble herself with any kind of speed. So why any kind of hurry? She was excited, the only explanation. In her mind she rummaged through all the possibilities of what she could be excited enough about that she would come and tell her, Miss Anti-Social, Corin. Then it hit her. She was getting a flat mate. Just then a knock at the door.

"Come in Mrs. Hudson." Mrs. Hudson entered with a grin on her face. "So, who is it? What's their name?" Corin inquired.

"What?" stammered Mrs. Hudson.

"The new tenant of course, Mrs. Hudson, who is it?"

"How...How did you...oh never mind you're always doing that! His name is Sherlock Holmes. He's the man who..." Corin cut her off.

"Sent your husband to death row, yes you've mentioned him before. Why is he moving here?" Mrs. Hudson shrugged and then shook her head.

"Wonderful, something to do when he comes. Speaking of which, when is he coming?"

"He's to move in tomorrow."

"Hmm. Interesting. A fast, most likely decisive man. He'll be an interesting read. Does he have a back up plan?" She asked.

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Hudson stammered, obviously surprised by such a question.

"For lodging after he moves out of here. Oh Mrs. Hudson, please, don't give me that look, nobody can tolerate me for any length of time except for my patients and they're all mental. Don't think I don't know about those times you've almost kicked me out!" Mrs. Hudson looked away, embarrassed. "We both know I'm an insufferable, anti-social, trigger happy know-it-all. Who would want to share a flat with me?" Mrs. Hudson looked down at the ground, beaten. Corin leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Mrs. Hudson left the room and closed the door just as Corin was slipping away into her memories.

She was back in America, flanking the president and listening intently to her earwig. Her eyes flicked from person to person, reading them each like a picture book. Mothers, fathers, children, students each boring and innocent. Then, she searched above the crowd to the tree line. At a glance, it was peaceful, but something wasn't right. There was a guy, seemingly bird watching, but yet, he seemed so sinister. His steps were anxious and he more than once directed his binoculars toward the president. Though he was at a distance, Corin could see that he too had an earwig. But this man was no friend of the government. No, nothing he did was calculated, not even his steps. He was scared, this was new to him. Yet whoever was on the other end of that earwig was a hardened professional. Most likely military trained and a sniper, judging by size of the weapon the scared man was tripping around. For the scared man it was probably his first time with a weapon that large. Then it hit her, WEAPON. He had a weapon. She had been so busy reading the book of his life that even when she deduced that he had a large firearm, she barely noticed it. This realization came just in time. In under a second she was pushing the president into the crowd, she heard a gunshot and a huge bullet blasted into her left shoulder, narrowly missing her neck. This sudden shock whipped her out of the past. She bolted upright in her chair and stared at the air-force blue* curtains protecting her from a brain overload. With a deep breath she slumped back into the chair. Running her fingers through her shoulder length auburn hair she forced herself to calm down. Breathing deeply, she walked to her bathroom and looked in the mirror. Then she lifted her hand the slid her shirt off her left shoulder to reveal a large scar on her shoulder from a bullet wound. She gazed at it for a second and once again remembered that fateful day. Again she was thrown back into her flash back and she felt like she was going to pass out. These episodes were frequent and unpredictable. Between them and her constant people "reading", she was sure that she would never find a human on earth willing to share a flat with her. She was also sure that she'd never find another human on earth like her. So the next day, her world took a new kind of bullet. And this one was named Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Fire

The next morning, Corin woke to the sound of yelling, shuffling and tripping. Guess the new tenant's getting a head start, she thought. Since she had fallen asleep in her chair she was fully clothed, so she headed down stairs to see exactly what was going on. When she got there, a man, about 6'8 stood in the center of the room. His hair was dark and curly, while his face was pale with very angular features, almost as if they had been carved in stone. His eyes, though a lightly bluish grey, were piercing. The man wore a long almost black coat and a worn blue scarf around his neck. So this was Sherlock Holmes. He was barking out orders to the movers. From his tone of voice she could tell he was used to feeling superior and more intelligent than others, probably a bit of a show off, very likely a younger brother. His posture did suggest young, no more than 32 and though well built and muscular he had never seen the battlefield. His fingers displayed some gunshot residue, so he was likely experienced with a gun, which he was carrying in his coat pocket. Judging by the current state of the room, he probably didn't want to risk not being able to find it for a while. Then she looked at his belongings. A few boxes contained what appeared to be some scientific odds and ends, but he wasn't a scientist, the pieces weren't at all consistent. However, they appeared will used, so he had gone to college. Most likely either Oxford or Cambridge. She scanned the heaps and mounds of his belongings. There was everything from a violin case to what appeared to be a human skull. Then, something shiny caught her eye. She looked harder. It was a laminated I.D. 'Good'; she thought 'Now I can finally figure out what this guy does.' Mr. Holmes turned his back for a second. This was plenty of time for Corin to snag the I.D. However, it was not Mr. Holmes's face on the I.D., nor his name. Instead Detective Inspector Lestrade's face looked back at her from the piece of plastic. Why would he have Lestrade's I.D.? She had worked with Lestrade before. He had asked her to do some profiling work for the New Scotland Yard a few times when their profiler was "unavailable". She thought back to one case. She remembered Lestrade looking for his I.D. He said he must have dropped it, but she recalled that his slightly exasperated tone made her think he thought otherwise. So this is where it went. Into the hands of Mr. Sherlock Holmes: Scientist, Musician, Former Student, Pick Pocket…she looked at him and she realized he was looking back, his eyes flicking to and fro over her as one might read a book. Realizing what he was doing she smiled inwardly and wondered what it said.


	3. Aim

Never had she met anyone like him before, and now that very person was moving in right underneath her. She was pleasantly surprised. The question of what he had "read" raced through her brain. The answer to that was that he could tell she wasn't from London, or even England by the old dirt stains on her jeans. He was torn between Canada and the United States. He also saw that she had worked for the government from where she came. Her posture suggested some form of fieldwork and that she'd been wounded while on duty. Among his many observations was the fact that she worked at a hospital. An I.D. card was sticking out of her pocket. However, she wasn't a doctor, nurse, or desk worker. The card would not be in jeans then but in either scrubs or a suite. So she was most likely a therapist. He saw many other things as well, but the most important was that she was reading him, just as he was her. When they both realized that, their eyes locked. Then a smile crept across Sherlock's face and soon Corin was smiling too. Sherlock stuck out his hand in greeting.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." He said, still smiling.

Corin shook his hand firmly, and responded in her very American accent, "Corin Cassidy, Therapist."

"American!" Sherlock mumbled, "I should have known…" Just then, Corin's phone rang loud through the room with her Owl City ring tone. She looked at her phone. The little pixels read SCHRODER. "Excuse me for a minute, it's one of my patients. " She turned the corner to take the call. Unbeknownst to her, Sherlock listened on the other side.

"Hallo...Herr Schröder, was haben Sie getan…WAS? Sie tat, was?! Oh du dummkopf! Entschuldigen. Tut mir leid. Ich werde gleich da. Tschüs." She ended the call and looked up at the ceiling with an exasperated look on her face. She walked back in the room.

"Du sprichst Deutsch." Sherlock stated, still smiling.

"Oh, ja. I mean, oh yeah. I used many languages in my last job, so now I can work with some foreign patients."

"It was a government job?"

"Secret Service. Look, I've got to go. Mr. Schröder messed up big time. His daughter's unstable and he just flipped out on her. Now I've got to go talk her off a ledge. Have fun unpacking, and, welcome to Baker Street."

"Thanks." He murmured. Just before she walked out he said, "Corin, where's your band playing tonight?"

"He's good!" she thought. Corin turned around and smiled, "The Black Friar on Queen Victoria Street at 10:00. Why? Might I accidentally run into my new downstairs flat mate there?"

"It's a possibility…"

"I don't really care either way, but I've got to go."

Sherlock watched as she ran out the door. He smiled to himself and began unpacking his belongings. Welcome to Baker Street indeed!


	4. Sorry!

**This is just a quick note: it has been brought to my attention that I accidentally posted the second chapter of my Black Butler fic in the place of the second chapter of this fic. It has been changed. My apologies. I hope you enjoy the story!**


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